


Dragon Broken

by PoliticsKarla



Category: Elder Scrolls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Gen, Philosophy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26820616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoliticsKarla/pseuds/PoliticsKarla
Summary: A future taking place a short while after the events of Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. Motivated primarily by philosophical concepts and loose ends/questions in existing lore.
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I've done my best to be lore-friendly in this story, but Elder Scrolls lore is particularly prone to ambiguity and change, so I can't guarantee that I've gotten everything right.
> 
> This story creates canonical versions of customizable characters and player choices--as such, consider this one of many possible futures.
> 
> I've included a glossary for anyone who isn't familiar with Elder Scrolls but wants to read anyway! Just navigate to the last chapter.

_ Where is this? Seeing...I cannot see. What is around me? It is not nothing. Blurs, all blurs. I have to sort it out. There is life here. Strong life. But there is death. The death is stronger than the life. The death surrounds the life. Closes in on it. There are little pockets of fading life. They are lost, their power is stolen. There are stronger blips of death. Undying and unalive. I know...I know their name. The children of chaos. Those not our ancestors. Daedra. I see. I do not see. I know. This is Oblivion. _

_ There...what is that? It is great. The mightiness of the death here. It breathes. Not what. Who is that? Not quite death. Death’s soul. How can death have a soul? A wretched and perverse being. Power. Death’s soul is power. Control. Domination. Domination. Domination. He dominates. He dominates a mortal. A pocket of fading life. The mortal is strong. Domination fears the mortal. He must end the mortal. He closes in. Life scatters across the realm, disperses and dies. There is much life to disperse. The domination holds. The life depletes. The life is great. The life depletes. The life is less. The life depletes. The life holds on tightly to itself, to its mortal. The life depletes. The life is weak. The life is gone. The mortal is just like all the rest, the ones whose life was stolen. _

_ Why is this? Must this be? I. I am here to stop this. I will stop it. I will stop it by being. I will be. Why be? I do not know. Maybe I will know. The mortal. I am life. I must touch the mortal. I must reach the mortal. I must be the mortal. I must replace the life. I move closer. Domination turns. Domination sees me. I know this. I move closer. He roars death across his domain. He is approaching me. I must reach the mortal. Faster. Faster. Time. Time is not...time is. Time is on my side. I can be first. I can be. Be. I touch the mortal. _

_ I see. _

A blinding flash of light burst from the mortal’s soul-shriven body. She shot up from the cold stone altar where she had been laid and levitated, before gliding to the ground. The light died down. She was in a castle, hewn of oppressive black stone, which she saw through an atmosphere of cold blue. Before her lay a Daedra, but not just any Daedra. Gigantic and horrifying, in the shape of a man, but with horns, spiky feet, and a long, barbed tail. He would have towered over her, were he not lying on the ground, apparently injured by the explosion of light. She probably would have stepped closer to him to investigate, but her instincts, luckily, took over, and she ran away from him and towards the array of equipment near the altar.

“Run, mortal. See what good it does you,” the Daedra called out after her in a deep, booming voice. “There is no escape.”

There had to be something here that could save her. She dared not look back, but she could hear the ground rumbling as he stood up again. From the confidence in his voice, it would seem that the light merely stunned him. Her head was swimming with thoughts, arrayed, unsorted, flowing throughout her psyche beyond her control. She had to ignore them. She had to survive. Survive, and she could sort through what in Oblivion was happening to her. Then she recognized it. On a desk, a sigil stone, etched with runes anchoring it to the mortal plane. To Mundus. Could she use it? She grabbed it just as she was hit by a large weapon, flung at her. She could feel it stealing her life essence. She looked at it. It was a mace, made from the same black stone, covered in grotesque, maiming spikes. There was no time. Another blow from that, and all of this would be for naught. She concentrated on her desire for safety. Her hand began to glow with arcane energy.

“The only thing you choose today for your world is that it will fight before it dies in my hands. You escape nothing.”

She touched the sigil stone with her glowing hand. The dank room and the threatening deity blurred and disappeared behind her. Then there was something else. The smell of ash and sand, in her nose. In her mouth, ugh. She lifted her head up. These were no ordinary ashes. This was the plume of life-giving and life-taking dust, touched by the hot of the volcano from whence it came and by the cold of the nearby snowy peaks. The dust in which yams could grow with enough talent and care. Solstheim. A land between peoples. A land between worlds.

\--

It is said that in all the world, there are only two kinds of cities: the important and the unknown. It’s a sensible enough thesis: political power is so passionately motivated to preserve itself that it will seek every hub of social interaction that crops up and assert itself within that community. The only places it does not bother with are the backwater towns where no commerce or gathering of import happens. A resident of Raven Rock would probably agree with this way of understanding the world, but for one caveat: there is a small, fascinating gray area between the important and the unknown. Such was Raven Rock. A legacy of influence by its founders, the East Empire Company, left two main economic assets to its name after the exodus of the Imperials: an abundant ebony mine and a warehousing industry. The latter rendered Raven Rock a crossroads, as it had become the choice of merchant lords wishing to negotiate their more underhanded deals outside of the public eye. Not that the law was really an issue--the Dominion, the Empire, and the Nation of Skyrim were so focused on each other that it no longer took a skilled merchant to dance around the eye of the law, but merely a competent one. Nevertheless, there were still matters for which it was best to shy away from the public gaze; it was just good business. Thus, the true chief commodity of Raven Rock was not ebony or organization--it was privacy. No wonder, then, that merchant lords were willing to throw around some coin to make sure the town never grew much bigger--and no wonder, either, that the commodity of privacy was sold just as much as it was bought.

All in all, it was the perfect place for somebody who wanted to keep a finger on Tamriel’s pulse while also keeping a low profile. Guinevere had no doubt that she wasn’t the only person who resided there for just that reason. She liked to think she could identify them. Ulano the barkeep, perhaps? Or the old alchemist who passed through the warehouse district every sunrise like clockwork to collect scathecraw? Or surely that one House Hlaalu guard, with his meticulously kept notebook? Who’s here for information, and why, and most importantly, would they be friend or foe when these delicate façades came crashing down?

_ I’ve got to stop this _ , she thought.  _ My grief is making me paranoid. _ She willed herself through the door of the Retching Netch and down the stairs.

“Guinevere! So glad to see you up and about! How’s about a pint of sujamma on the house?”

“Ah--not now, Ulano, not yet at least. Dinner first, if you would. The usual.” She took a seat and put five corundum coins on the table, each stamped with the regal Dunmer face that supposedly represented the Nerevarine. Ulano swooped over.

“Needed to eat outside of the house for a change? I can only imagine. I’ll get your stew going right away. Anything else while you’re waiting?”

“Nothing else, thank you, Ulano.” She smiled at him in the hopes that it would be more effective at keeping him away than the cold shoulder. Surely she couldn’t be the only one who had noticed that he fancied her? Not that people would say anything, since gossiping around never got you far around here. If you were going to deal with information in a town like Raven Rock, you were either a professional with secrecy or you kept your mouth shut.

He broke himself away from his transfixation with her long enough to look down at the table. “Well, I’m not taking  _ that _ .”

“Barkeeping isn’t free, is it? Someone’s got to pay for it, might as well be, you know, the customers.”

“Not from a bereaved mother, I’m not.”

“I may be dealing with a lot, but you know that I have more money than I know what to do with. Take the gods-damned coins.”

“I know you’re far beyond good for it, I’m just standing on principle. Think about it. What if you hadn’t been able to convince that Telvanni bigwig to pay ten times the list price for your services? One less coincidence and suddenly my charity ain’t so futile.”

She sighed. Once Ulano Tedrini was determined to treat you like royalty, there was no convincing him otherwise. She pocketed the coins. She had, on multiple occasions, considered requiting his advances. Not that she was particularly interested in him, but he was clearly a good and kindhearted mer, and tying herself down to Raven Rock might bring her some certainty--maybe even some accountability. But no, it wasn’t sustainable. He wasn’t dumb, but he wasn’t exactly smart either, and any secrets he inevitably found out wouldn’t be safe from cleverer moles. Not to mention the racial difference. If there was anywhere a Nord could marry a Dunmer, it was Solstheim, but even here there would be too many murmurs for Guinevere’s liking.

Her horker stew was probably excellent, but she could barely taste it on account of all the things running through her mind. She was sorely tempted to take up Ulano on his offer of a drink, but she decided against it. Tonight was the night to finally start processing things, and maybe even make some decisions. She left the Retching Netch and headed back to Severin Manor. That’s when the quakes hit.

Normally quakes weren’t a big deal. Red Mountain remained somewhat active, and it was a badly-kept secret that Raven Rock Mine would occasionally find something more potent than ebony. But this was accompanied by a faint rumbling sound which could not have been merely the shockwave. Guinevere closed her eyes and listened for the sound during the next tremor.

**HAH SIL GEIN**

Words. Words of power. With the third tremor, she could somewhat make out the voice. It was a mortal, fully alive, probably female. Shit. Only a few people remained in the world who were well-practiced enough in the Thu’um to shout anything other than common combat-use phrases. She didn’t know who could possibly have performed that shout, but she did know exactly who people would think performed it--and they would be upon Raven Rock in a matter of days. She walked back to Severin Manor, dissembling her panic as well as she could, and locked the door tightly behind her. It felt like the shouts were coming from the north. She wanted to head right back out to investigate, but it would attract more obvious conflict than she could afford. She would go the next day, after the various bandits had returned to their hideouts to avoid the revealing radiance of the morning sun.

\--

Kendovaaz had ash in her mouth. She had to rinse it out. Thankfully the shore was nearby. She ran down and submerged her open jaw. Oh, great. Now she had salt in her mouth.

She was by Bloodskal Barrow. How did she get there? The last thing she remembered was...coming here to do some research, okay, that made sense, but then...an ambush...Coldharbour, she was brought to Coldharbour, and then...a chaotic blur. There were sounds and images, but she couldn’t make any sense of any of them. So how had she gotten back? She took a few deep breaths, hoping they would help to clear things up. They didn’t. She decided to leave it for now. Maybe someone else could explain. Better just head home. She started trodding southwards through the wet ash of the shore.

Dawn was just beginning to shine through by the time she reached Raven Rock. No doubt some shady meeting had just ended, or maybe began, a deal made or unmade. Life as usual, inasmuch as it could be called ‘life’. That thought struck her as odd. She did not recognize this feeling of disdain for the sordid parapolitics of the merchant lords. Why not, though? That was how she had always felt about them. Disdain, even disgust. And yet, something was different. It was like it was an entirely different form of disdain. That’s when it hit her. This isn’t contemptuous disdain. This is moralistic disdain. She hated the harm of it all, the way they trample on the downtrodden people in their supply chain. Now where did that feeling come from? Severin Manor’s position on the edge of the town left her no time to question this. She reached for the door. Locked. She knocked on the door. “Mom, it’s me, could you let me in? I don’t have my key.” She didn’t have anything. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Then the faint sounds of chaotic scuffling, then heavy footsteps--no, bootsteps. Clicks of the lock, and the swing of the door.

Kendovaaz was hit with a heavy blow to the chest that knocked her down to the ground.

“Mom, what--”

A gigantic greatsword, fashioned from ebony and some sinewy, white substance, pointed at her throat, keeping her pinned down. She looked up. There was Guinevere, clad in a full set of armor that appeared to be made of similar materials: jet-black ebony, tarnished-white hard sinew--bone, maybe?--fur, and a darker brown layer that looked a bit like studded leather. She removed the gray, horned helmet.

“What--” Guinevere said between heavy breaths, “is the name--of the guar--you ride--to Tel Mithryn?”

“I...Stalhrim...what’s going on?” Kendovaaz sputtered. A security question? Who would possibly want to impersonate her?

Guinevere relaxed slightly at the sound of the correct answer. She deftly slid the greatsword into a sheath on her back, then reached down, grabbed Kendovaaz by the nape of her neck, shoved her inside, and slammed the door. She redid the locks and then turned to Kendovaaz, eyeing her warily. “What happened? What do you know about the shout? Are you o--how are y--what are you wear--” Guinevere took a deep breath, with a gauntleted hand to her face. “What happened?” she asked again, a little more slowly.

“I don’t know,” Kendovaaz said, doing her best to remain measured and calm. And probably failing. “I went to Bloodskal to compile some diagrams for master Neloth. I was attacked, I think maybe I was taken to Coldharbour, and then it’s all a blur. Next thing I remember is walking back here.”

Guinevere fell into a chair. Another deep breath. “Do you know how long it’s been?”

“No, I have no sense of...it’s been a long time, hasn’t it? Oh, gods, you mourned me, didn’t you?” She rushed over to Guinevere, sat on her lap, and hugged her. “I’m here now, it’s okay.”

Guinevere returned the embrace, much harder. “Oh, my baby. I’m so glad you’re safe. It’s...not okay, though. We don’t have much time.”

Kendovaaz got up, followed by Guinevere. “What’s going on, Mom?” The two of them started to walk down the stairs, into the living area.

“Ever since the Last Dragonborn went missing twenty years ago, interested parties have been looking for her. Some seek her aid. Most of those still searching, however, seek her destruction, not least among them the Thalmor. And a few hours ago, they surely heard the reverberation of a shout, originating from this area: Hah Sil Gein.”

“Mind, soul, one,” Kendovaaz translated. “What could that mean?”

“I don’t know. Given its point of origin, it probably has something to do with your return, but if you don’t know either, then it will have to be a mystery for now. No matter what, though, Thalmor agents are almost certainly on their way here to find the only living mortal female they know is capable of producing a shout like that. Put on something a little more decent and pack your things. We need to go.”

“What? I mean, the Thalmor are pretty ruthless, but as long as we cooperate and they find what they’re looking for, then we’re probably safe--” she cut herself off cold.

That armor. That’s not just any bone. Dragon bone, and the studded leather must be hewn dragon scales. And Kendovaaz was twenty years old. Born in the Year of the Dragonborn, fourth era 201. And the Dovahkiin was last seen in this area.

“All this time,” Kendovaaz breathed, half to herself. “All this time, you didn’t tell me.”

“‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t quite cut it, does it? But listen, you have to understand--”

“I do understand,” Kendovaaz interrupted. “That’s the worst part. Ugh. I want to be mad at you, but I’m not, I can’t be, because I know exactly why you hid it from me, like, if I was in society at all then the secret was never going to be safe with me. I just...” she trailed off. “How am I supposed to take this?”

“Knowing you, Kendovaaz? With grace and determination.” And Kendovaaz watched her mysterious, loving, powerful mother turn and go to begin packing. Her mother, the Dragonborn.


	2. Chapter 2

It didn’t take long to pack the minimal supplies they would need to travel, but it took until midday to accomplish the trickier task of hiding any remaining items that might help the Thalmor track them down. Guinevere, luckily, had been prescient enough to store most of the spoils of her adventures in various secret locations across Skyrim, so the incriminating items consisted mainly of Kendovaaz’s scholarly book collection and arcane experimentation tools. They were likely to find out that she was apprenticed to the Telvanni at Tel Mithryn, but it was worth hiding any evidence that might point toward Master Neloth himself, who, according to Guinevere, was the only other person on the island who was aware of her identity and whereabouts. Kendovaaz spent the better part of an hour working to perfect a concealment charm on the spare storage room where they stowed everything. Perhaps it would have been easier if she weren’t so distracted, but she didn’t stop until she had completed it to a standard that even Neloth might have been proud of. The two of them decided to sleep for the rest of the day, so that they could leave under some cover of darkness.

As they left, Guinevere pulled on a nondescript black cloak. It was still quite clear that she was wearing armor underneath, but this way its composition wasn’t readily obvious in a way that could identify her. Dragonscale armor wasn’t unheard of since the Dragon Crisis, but Guinevere and Eorlund Gray-Mane were the only two living people known to be capable of enough precise artistry with the temperamental material for their pieces to be really practical. Kendovaaz, at Guinevere’s suggestion, exchanged her usual Telvanni robes for a gray Nordic-style mage’s wrap--a welcome relief, both because of the soft, warm furs that lined most Nord garb and because of the stuffy formality that Telvanni “dignity” demanded. She pulled the hood over her pointed ears so that only her human-appearing face was visible.

_ That should have been my first clue, huh? _ She thought to herself. Although her name and face led most people to believe she was fully Nord, Kendovaaz was a manmer. It was most typical of children of mixed-race parentage to simply take on the racial characteristics of the mother, but it was theoretically possible for mixing to happen instead--how else could the Bretons have been created, after all?--and the dragon blood running through both of their veins could definitely cause that.  _ Duh. _ In fairness, though, Guinevere was always quite reticent about the matter, and especially about Kendovaaz’s father. Kendovaaz was only able to gather from the townsfolk that he was a traveling priest of some sort before Guinevere shushed her up about it. Neloth was the closest thing she had to a father figure, but that wasn’t saying much.

They sneaked to the docks and into one of the cargo holds of a commercial freight-ship bound for Windhelm. Kendovaaz, who was still getting accustomed to the idea of being on the run, asked Guinevere why they couldn’t just pay for passage.

“No trails anywhere, Ken. Money can be traced. Usually with more money.”

They felt the lurch of the ship setting sail, and they waited a few more minutes to make sure it was safe to talk further.

“Keep an eye out for when we reach White River Inlet. We need to get off there.” Kendovaaz gave her a silent, inquisitive stare. “Winterhold,” Guinevere said to answer the unspoken question. “I have friends at the College, and it’s one of the less likely places for Stormcloak’s agents to come snooping. He’s not fond of magic, but the leadership has maintained their diplomacy shrewdly enough that he doesn’t particularly care about them either way, as long as they don’t interfere.”

“Hold on, so we need to stay secret from High King Ulfric, too? I thought you fought for him. Heck, I’m not so sure the stories are exaggerating when they say you pretty much single-handedly won the war for him. Surely he’d be an ally?”

Guinevere sighed. “Mm, maybe we’ll have to reveal ourselves to him if we’ll be in Skyrim for long, but I’d rather not. I did fight under his banner because he was the one driving out Imperial rule, but despite the Imperials’ concession, he would still feel entitled to my help--and that’s just not something I can return to.”

“Yeah, speaking of which, why...you know...”

“Why, what?” It sounded like she probably knew the question that would follow, but it wasn’t quite a welcome question. Kendovaaz made the split-second decision to probe further anyway.

“Why did you stop, why did you leave? It certainly wasn’t for lack of Skyrim needing you, all of Tamriel, for that matter. I think a lot of your contemporaries were sort of expecting you to...I don’t know...”

“March all the way to Alinor and overthrow the Thalmor, usher in a new era of peace and prosperity for every people, right every wrong, destroy every evil?” It was clearly sarcastic, but yeah, Kendovaaz thought, there’s a reason the Dragonborn cult was growing in prominence and even bleeding out into provinces other than Skyrim. “Just because I’ve slain legendary enemies doesn’t mean I’m a match for all that.”

“Why in Oblivion not? The Thalmor want you dead because they’re afraid of you, no? You certainly bowled over the guards at the embassy.”

“An exaggerated story told by drunk, excited Nords. That mission was mostly sneaking.” Guinevere hated lying outright like that, but damn, did her daughter know her history. Though, to be fair, keeping covert was the original plan. It was hardly her fault that Razelan thought ‘cause a distraction’ meant ‘make enough of a ruckus to put every guard there on high alert.’ “The point is, even if I could barge in there and slay the elven King, combat prowess is not the only kind of strength there is, Kendovaaz. Without the diplomatic work of gaining the peoples’ trust, then all I’d accomplish is incurring the wrath of every loyal High Elf, Wood Elf, and Khajiit in the Dominion. Dismantling that empire is going to take a much better plan than big-mean-Dragonborn-kills-everything.”

“What, a plan like big-mean-Dragonborn-disappears-entirely-instead-to-be-a-mom?” Kendovaaz regretted that as soon as the words left her mouth. She couldn’t help it, though--while the Dragonborn cult’s fantasies of Guinevere returning to lead some glorious coup d’état were pretty extreme, she sympathized with their anxiety, and given that alternatives were a bunch of despots, she could even see them having rather a point. Was the home life Kendovaaz was born to really worth leaving all that? “I’m sorry,” she backpedaled, “I just...I’m glad to be alive, and if you wanted to have a family instead, that’s your choice, I just can’t imagine making the same choice if it were me.”

Guinevere resisted the urge to heave a sigh of relief. It was probably best for Kendovaaz to believe that was all there was to it, for now at least. She gave her a quick rub on the scalp, then settled into a nook between two crates to meditate. Might as well use the few hours they had to steady her mind a bit.

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me about my father now?”

“Nnnnnnope.”

“Worth a try.”

\--

Onmund wasn’t too keen on the idea of taking up some of the watch duty at first. It wasn’t the most engaging of jobs, and it seemed like Faralda was one of the few who would be happy to do it, so why change that? So for a while he kept bitterly repeating Archmage Mirabelle’s words in his head: “We need Winterhold to trust us. It’s best if an elf isn’t the only face they see every day. We can’t afford to pick that fight.” Eventually the job had grown on him, though. The College was pretty tightly-knit, so it was nearly impossible to find a sense of privacy within the main walls. The grounds were big enough for twice as many mages to live comfortably, but the people had an impulsive tendency to check on each other. Onmund could see the appeal now: keeping watch was several hours of deep, meditative solitude that couldn’t be found anywhere else.

Despite his personal objection to the change disappearing, though, he was still hung up on the Archmage’s reason for it. Why should we care if Faralda is the public face of the College? If the town had a problem with that, that was their problem--not hers, and not the College’s. Everybody knows that Faralda and Nirya and all of the mer in the College can be trusted. Ancano was the last person with any sympathy for the Dominion that they had even allowed on the grounds, and they would not soon forget how that turned out. So why not pick that fight? They’d have the moral right of it. They’d win.  _ But at what cost, _ he could practically hear the Archmage responding. Hmph. Fine.

He was meditating on this with the sort of repetitive delirium that comes near the end of a whole day on watch when he saw something unusual on the southward approach to Winterhold. Two robed, hooded travelers riding a horse--common enough--but the horse had a strange aura about it. It was glowing purple. After another minute of them drawing nearer to the town, Onmund could make out its features--or rather its lack thereof. A skeletal horse. Just before the final ridge obscuring them from the town’s view, they dismounted and the horse disappeared. A conjured skeletal horse...a bit too necromantic and macabre for his taste, but it wasn’t his place to judge--“open-minded” College policy and all that. At any rate, the two travelers were almost certainly on their way to see them. He made the walk from the view terrace across the bridge to meet them.

Sure enough, they trudged directly through the thick snow all the way to meet him at the base of the bridge. Finally he could see enough of their faces to distinguish them: a burly Nord warrior maiden and a lithe young mage-scholar. A scholarly noble and her bodyguard, perhaps? He recited the standard greeting. “Welcome to the College of Winterhold. Please state your purpose here and prepare to demonstrate your magical skill.”

His incorrect guess at who these women might be left him a little confused when the armored warrior spoke first. “We seek knowledge, advice, and most importantly, asylum. I’d be able to pay you whatever you require for your discretion and confidence in the matter, but to be honest...” she pulled her hood back a little to make her face more clearly visible... “I would rather just take it as a favor for an old friend, eh, Onmund?”

His legs weakened and he nearly dropped to his knees. Instead, though, he expressed his penitence with a simple stare. “By the gods,” he whispered, “my eyes behold the return of the Dovahkiin.” He shook himself out of his trance. “Come on in, Hildegard. I’m sure everybody will be delighted to see you again.” He started quickly walking across the bridge towards the College, and waved the two to follow him. He could just overhear their conversation over the moaning winds of the chasm below.

“What? What’s that smile about?”

“Hildegard?”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t think I’d have gone by the same name while hiding, did you?”

“Sure, but  _ Hildegard _ ?”

*sigh* “I always hated it. My mother thought I should have a proper Nord name.”

“Ah, so that’s why you chose, erm, Guinevere? Big shift there.”

“Look, I just wanted a name that didn’t make people check for mead oozing out of my ears.”

“All right, all right. Just...remember this next time you tease me.”

“My loving daughter.”

“Yes, I do.” Sounds of her shuffling over for a quick side-hug as they walked.

It was cold enough that no one was out in the inner plaza. Upon hearing the door close behind them, Guinevere looked back to make sure no one was in sight behind, and then removed her cloak, making her mere presence feel about ten times as powerful between her armor and her sheer composure. Kendovaaz removed her hood in turn, giving her an unobstructed view of the plaza and the mountains of Winterhold behind. She was overcome with a sense of awe at the majesty of her mother and the mountains behind her. No wonder so many people had come to revere such a hero. Even having a mom named “Hildegard” seemed about 50% less silly when she looked like that. Still though, there was something about her chosen name that captured the spirit of the towering mountains even better.

The wave of warmth that came as they entered the Hall of the Elements felt interesting to Kendovaaz. Although the temperature was probably comparable to the temperate regions of Solstheim that she was accustomed to, it played with the cold outside the doors in a way that made it seem infinitely more comforting. She wondered if all buildings in Skyrim felt like this. Four mages were sitting in a circle near the door of the round hall, sharing a midday meal and catching each other up on their latest studies. Onmund called out to them excitedly. “Arniel! Drevis! Brelyna!” The four looked up at him, and he smiled. “Look who’s here.”

Drevis Neloren, the Dunmer illusionist, had been caught mid-swallow and so began to cough at the sight of Guinevere. Arniel Gane, the investigative historian, cracked a goofy grin. Brelyna Maryon, the spellcraft theorist, simply had a dumbfounded expression frozen on her face. And the fourth, a young Orc woman with the telltale demeanor of an apprentice, looked to the others for a clue as to what was going on.

“Uzdra,” Arniel looked briefly at her to say, “you might want to go fetch the Archmage. She’ll want to know that the Dovahkiin’s back.”

“No need.” A gentle Breton voice echoed from the doorway leading to the upper chambers. “You think I’d have missed the fuss?” Mirabelle walked towards the group with a subtle smile and her arms crossed. Guinevere turned around to see her and returned the smile. Mirabelle grabbed her unique hooded drape with one hand. “I don’t suppose you’ve come to claim these? The position’s yours for the taking as far as I’m concerned.”

“Tempting, Mirabelle, but I’ve only come for a short asylum. And perhaps some scrying. There are some things I’d like to stay apprised of.”

“By all means. You can have access to any facilities. I suppose your Elder Scroll would be useful to you, as well? We still have it, of course.”

“ _ My _ Elder Scroll? I may have found it and used it, but it hardly belongs to me.”

Mirabelle raised her eyebrows. “Oh, you don’t know, do you? Well, of course, it’s not like we gave you any context when we sent you that letter. Say your hellos, make yourselves comfortable in the Hall of Countenance, get some rest and some food. We’ll meet back here after dusk so we can show you all we’ve discovered. It’s been a bit of a focus of ours in the last twenty years.”

They proceeded back to the plaza door. “Ken, how about you go on ahead of me, Mirabelle and I should iron out some details,” Guinevere said as she gestured to the door. “The hall southeast of the front gate.” Kendovaaz nodded and dutifully headed out, but couldn’t help but overhear Mirabelle begin the conversation behind her: “So is that her?”

\--

The Hall of the Elements was nearly pitch-black. They had dispelled all but one of the magelight lanterns that normally lit the room, and the stained-glass windows were just thick enough that no starlight leaked through them. Urag gro-Shub, keeper of the Arcanaeum and the College’s unofficial loremaster, placed a long crystal prism over the well in the center, where it levitated steadily. He nodded to Drevis, who cast a few spells on the prism with what appeared to be an incredible amount of precision. After the first, the prism began to glow, and Kendovaaz could now see that it was some sort of container, with what was presumably the Elder Scroll inside. It was still difficult to make out due to the opacity of the crystal, which obscured the details of the Scroll. The container must be a precaution, no doubt, to prevent the debilitating blindness or madness inflicted upon those who read the Scrolls directly. As the glow intensified, Mirabelle extinguished the last magelight, so that the Scroll was the only source of light in the room. There was something almost holy about the sight of the Winterhold mages sitting around this powerful relic--even though few of them probably spent much time worshipping gods, there was a sense of awe, even penitence at the sight of what was clearly beyond the scope of mortal perception. Brelyna cast a few spells of her own, and the room was filled with golden projections of the various glyphs and diagrams that one can typically perceive on a Scroll. Urag waved his hand in the mystic gas in the well so that the Scroll, and the projections, began to spin slowly around the room.

He proceeded to narrate. “Most of the world knows the Elder Scrolls as the Aedric Prophecies. We’ve discovered that this nickname is doubly inaccurate. First, the evidence suggests that they predate the Aedra, instead being fundamental fragments of creation itself. More relevant, though, is that their capabilities extend far beyond just prophecy. They are, without a doubt, the most powerful chronomantic objects in the Aurbis. Written within these ever-shifting glyphs are the stories not just of what will be, but what can be, what is, what was, and what could have been.”

Drevis and Brelyna began to cast a slow, continuous spell that connected them to each other and to the Scroll. The glyphs began to spin, fold, and flit about, until they became blurred blips of light.

“The particular paths of being that appear in our world depend on the agency of mortals to live--mortals possess a creativity of which spirits are largely incapable. Which brings us to this Scroll. It is one of a few that are centered not just around an idea, or a place, or a period, but a person. A person unusually conscious of their agency in changing the flow of time. These people always arise amidst great events of change on Mundus. Coups...”

Drevis and Brelyna exerted their will into the spell and the glyphs consolidated into a projected image: a hooded battlemage lying on the ground beneath the sword-point of an armored warrior, behind whom stood an emperor.

“Ruptures in time...”

The light reorganized itself into another image, this time a Breton man in a late-third-era Blades uniform, holding a green gemstone in front of a gigantic humanoid Dwarven animunculus.

“Revolutions...”

A tall Dark Elf male, swinging a blade at a glowing Chimer female. The Nerevarine killing Almalexia, perhaps?

“Calamities...”

Finally a scene Kendovaaz recognized, having been depicted frequently in Imperial artwork ever since: the dragon-like Avatar of Akatosh fighting the god of destruction, Mehrunes Dagon, in the Temple of the One, but this time with a focus on an armored Imperial man watching from the floor of the temple.

“Apocalypses.”

And there she was: Guinevere, unmistakably her despite looking twenty years younger, slaying a large black dragon that could only be Alduin the world-eater. Kendovaaz glanced over at her to see her reaction, but her face was inscrutable, still staring intently at the spectacle.

“So too with these Aurbically significant heroes, the Scrolls don’t just say what they  _ will _ do, but what they have done...”

Guinevere, slaying an Imperial general.

“What they could have done...”

The general was replaced with Ulfric Stormcloak.

“And what they yet might do.”

A vision of Guinevere sitting on a smooth stone throne with red banners, wearing Cyrodilic robes. At this sight, finally, Kendovaaz could see her mother flinch. She breathed faster for a moment, but then regained her composure before anyone else could notice. But what had bothered her so much about that possibility? Kendovaaz admitted to herself that she, too, was somewhat shocked by the sight--she had only now realized that, at least according to the rules of the old empire, before the fall of the Septim dynasty, their dragon blood would have made the two of them contenders for the Ruby Throne itself. But Guinevere, on the other hand, had her whole life to consider that. Nevertheless, Urag gave Kendovaaz little time to ponder this before he moved on.

“This Scroll resonates with the agency and soul of the Dragonborn. While the nature of this resonance is still a mystery, we have at times been able to assign it physical location.”

Brelyna broke the image-projecting spell and the glyphs and lines returned to their original positions. Drevis dimmed the glyphs and solidified the lines, then cast another two projected images, which he laid under them: near the middle of the room, a map of Tamriel, and across the circular ceiling, a wheel-like shape which Kendovaaz recognized as a classic Aurbis map. At its center was a small circle, which represented the mortal plane of Mundus. From it emerged eight spokes, supposedly the eight Towers of the world. Between the spokes were divided sixteen large areas and a number of smaller areas: Oblivion, with the sixteen realms of its sixteen Daedric Princes. And finally, past the eight-spoked section, it split into twelve sections representing the celestial firmament and the heavenly realms of Aetherius. Although most scholars agreed that this representation of the Aurbis was far more literal-minded than the reality, it remained useful at times to describe the universe as a whole, especially when investigating the concept of Aurbic symmetry.

“If you would be so kind as to approach the Scroll, you can show us what we mean.” Urag nodded at Guinevere. She obliged, and walked steadily toward the center of the hall. As the Scroll apparently recognized her presence, certain locations on the maps began to light up: mostly points in Skyrim, but also one in Oblivion and one in Aetherius. The two brightest spots were Winterhold and somewhere in the middle of Skyrim, probably the summit of the Throat of the World.

“It was while investigating this that we discovered another point of resonance which we couldn’t explain...here it is right now.” He pointed to a glowing spot in Aetherius, which, as if on cue, flashed away and reappeared in a different location. “After a few sleepless nights trying to figure out what it even was, we finally deduced it: an island, hidden away in an ever-moving, mortal-made Aetherial plane.”

“You found Artaeum, didn’t you?” Guinevere responded. “So the resonance must have been whatever connection I had with the Eye of Magnus.”

“That was our first guess as well, but no, something else in the Psijic Order’s possession is the source: another Elder Scroll.” He looked at Kendovaaz. “Yours. We made contact with them, and they told us the prophecy that we passed on to you.”

“Wait, what?” Kendovaaz managed to say through her shock. “My life is tied to an Elder Scroll, too?”

“Try not to think of it like that,” Guinevere interjected as she sat back down. “If anything, the Scroll is tied to you.  _ It’s _ bound by  _ your _ agency, not the other way around.”

“And you knew about this?” Kendovaaz could barely take it anymore. So many secrets, all of them kept from her.

“I’ve always known you were destined for greatness, Ken. That’s part of why I chose to raise you in Raven Rock. So that you’d get to know and love Tamriel--a love that someday you’d be able to act upon.”

She didn’t know whom to blame. Still not her mother, she thought--again, the less she knew, the safer they’d be. It was pretty clear from what she heard that even when their official reputations were good, heroes made as many enemies as they did allies and believers, and the Dragonborn was no exception. Perhaps it was that very idea that she blamed. Why did Guinevere have to hide in the first place? Whatever it was about the world that forced her to do that was a truly pernicious evil.

“And this prophecy?” She practically whispered. Mirabelle softly recited it to her.

_ When the dragon is broken _

_ And the mortal folk shattered _

_ Padomay’s children shall take their cue _

_ Unless first their prize _

_ Is claimed by its heirs _

_ Led by the child of Green, Dov, and time made new. _

Silence. Everyone was waiting for Kendovaaz’s reaction. She decided she would give them no such pleasure. She speedwalked out of the Hall, paused before going through the door to the plaza, and decided to instead take the stairs up to the parapet at the top of the tower.


	3. Chapter 3

_ Hello, Tamriel. I know I can’t see much of you through these mountains and snowy winds, but I know you’re there. I’m not sure what I expected when I first came to see you. More exploring, sight-seeing, meeting new people. Less...consequence. _

_ You really do need me, don’t you? I’ve felt it, for as long as I’ve been old enough to understand such things. You’re in terrible pain. Every part of you aches for something new. And across it all, a dreadful tension, like an injured spine that you wish you could align, but you can’t, for fear that you might shatter it with the effort. I’ll help you how I can. Why would I do any different? So many before me have risen to their destinies. The Wheel’s just turned upon me, is all. _

_ I want to be excited about this. I’ve heard stories about the Dovahkiin--Mom--and I think just about every little kid who hears stories like that dreams of having their own adventures one day. Maybe that’s what I’m grieving, why I hate the fact that only now have I found out who I really am. It’s not that I didn’t get the chance to hear about my idols and dream of being like them--I did--it’s that only now do I know that I  _ can  _ be like them. And will. But now I know the dark side of that dream. I know all the harsh truths of heroism. I understand the pain I’ll encounter. I see my destiny now, and I’m glad that the lie is lifted. But I will never get to see my destiny with the innocence and idealism of a child. That’s what I’ve lost. _

_ So then, what was my sacrifice for? It was this or publicly, there would be no raising me privately. I get that. But why not publicly? Mom, why did you hide? To protect me? Because the prophecy said you needed to? _

She heard the door creak open and closed behind her. She shook herself from her meditation. It must have been about an hour since she came up here. She didn’t even have to look back to recognize Guinevere’s warmth, as well as the sound of her dragonscale sabatons against the stone bricks.

“Are you mad at me?” she said, with almost the kind softness Kendovaaz had known before all this began. “You have every right to be.”

Kendovaaz sighed deeply. “I don’t know. Mm...probably not. Same deal, like what I said earlier, I recognize that you had to, to stay in secret. What I really want to know, then, is...” she took a long pause to put the words together, then spoke them slowly and precisely: “What am I to you?”

Guinevere needed no time to come up with her response, which she gave with the same intentional, measured tone: “My beloved daughter.”

“Is that all? Not your responsibility, to be released into her destiny when she’s ready? Or your apprentice, reared to pick up where you left off?”

This time, Guinevere needed to think a moment. “You are who you are, and in all of who you are, I love you.” The answer Kendovaaz needed to hear, if not the answer she wanted.

“Okay. If that’s all you can tell me, all right. Then--” she cut herself off, then slid off the brick wall to face her mother. “Then I just need one thing. I need you to look me in the eyes and tell me. Did you have a reason to go into hiding? I know you weren’t entirely honest when you said before, and you don’t have to tell me what it was, but I just need to know, did you have a reason?”

“Yes,” she said directly to her sabatons.

“Mom.”

She looked at her daughter’s face. Her elegant elven ears were red, and her tear-stains were forming little ice crystals in the bitter Winterhold cold. “Yes. Hiding was a carefully made choice. I can barely begin to understand what you’ve lost, but whatever it is, you did not lose it in vain.”

Kendovaaz bridged her hands over her nose and took a deep breath, then another. 

“Okay. Then it’s time to rest and prepare.” She gave her mother’s arm an affectionate brush--a silent thank-you--and then ran off the front parapet while casting a spell of partial levitation, whereupon she glided slowly and gracefully onto the College plaza, and walked into the Hall of Countenance to sleep.

\--

Ceporah Tower was as beautiful as it ever was. Its spires of fossilized coral seemed to stretch all the way up to the golden-streaked barrier that formed the artificial sky over Artaeum. Cirroc reflected on the fact that the view hadn’t changed a bit since the island was removed from Tamriel over one hundred years ago, and even before then the absence of the barrier and the occasional presence of a night sky were the only difference. Everything else was exactly the same as it was when he was first recruited to the Psijic Order at the beginning of the fourth era. And that was a short time--the oldest members like Celarus and Valsirenn remembered all the way back to the first time the island was removed. Truth be told, the life-extending properties of the island were not quite as desirable as they had said in their recruitment pitch. There was a contentment and serenity to witnessing the constancy of this microcosm, but there was also a sadness to watching the world around grow and change while you did not. 

Perhaps he would grow more accustomed to this stasis in time. Ritemaster Valsirenn seemed to have the idea. He looked behind to see here, and sure enough, she was meditating at the shrine to her daughter and husband, as she had done every day without fail for a thousand years. That Cirroc had yet to understand. Perhaps when the emotions that settle into constancy are pleasant ones, like the beauty of the island or the satisfaction of ritual scholarship, one could easily make it part of an extended being. But Valsirenn had developed a serene peace with her grief, without banishing it. He wrapped his hand around the eye-shaped amulet around his neck, as he often did to recenter his mind.

**_BOOM_ **

Every fiber in Cirroc’s body bolted to attention, making him feel almost nauseous. There were no disturbances on Artaeum. Ever. He glanced over at the Ritemaster, who had emerged from her meditation. Even she, champion of stoics that she was, seemed spooked. They made eye contact from across the saltrice paddies.

**_BOOM_ **

He ran over to meet her on the path in front of the College of Psijics.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” she replied hurriedly. “It seems to be resonating from the Summerset portal.”

The two of them ran over together to the portal in front of the College building, which led between here and the Keep of the Eleven Forces on Summerset. Behind them, Loremaster Celarus, the official leader of the Psijics (if only for the benefit of outsiders), ran out from Ceporah tower to meet them.

With a final  **_CRACK_ ** **,** the portal burst open wide, and through it marched four Dominion soldiers, followed by a hooded Thalmor agent. Behind them an entire legion of soldiers was visible, ready to march in through the keep.

Celarus made it to the scene and stood up tall, panting slightly from the effort of running so fast. “Hold, Dominion! This entrance is highly improper. For what reason do you come barging onto this sacred island?”

The Thalmor agent removed his hood, revealing his particularly long yellow face. “The time has come for the Dominion to take what is rightfully ours across the world. To do that, we will require the help of our allies in this most illustrious of holy orders.” He narrowed his eyes and leaned in slightly towards Celarus. “We may count you as allies, yes? It would be ever a shame to destroy such a beautiful High Elven institution.

“We are monks of the Old Ways. We will have no part of your warmongering.”

“It seems you are unaware of your options, Loremaster,” the agent said with dripping condescension. “You have two: help us, or be obliterated off this island, whereupon your Old Ways will die with you.”

“If you value our work, then you would do no such thing.”

“You think us so callous? Realize, monk, that if we do not destroy you, then the barbaric lesser races surely will should our ability to protect you be interrupted.

Valsirenn cast a Psijic ward between them and the invaders. “Fight your own war. If you force our hand, then we shall fight our own as well.”

The agent heaved a haughty sigh. “So be it. It is time for the Great War to resume, and we cannot afford to flirt with any gray area between friend and enemy.” He waved his hand and all the soldiers, even those barely in view through the portal, reached to draw their weapons.

Valsirenn threw a time-freezing charm, which expanded into a large sphere that covered the portal and the intruders. They froze in their tracks. “I can’t hold this for long, Celarus. What do we do?”

The Loremaster pressed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them again. “We can’t fight forever. We need to evacuate the island. Cirroc, run into the College building and inform the Relicmaster. We will have to salvage as many items as we can before the Dominion has access to them. I will return to Ceporah Tower to set up our escape portal. Val, we need as much time as you can give us.”

Valsirenn nodded, already straining from the effort of keeping the spell in place. Cirroc bolted into the old building. Fortunately, only a few people would be there: Relicmaster Quaranir and a few others who cared for the Vault of Moawita.

He heaved open the stone doors to the vault where, luckily, the entire relic team was sitting in a circle.

“The Dominion is attacking the island. We have to leave. Take whatever you can to Ceporah Tower.”

They all jumped up and began scrambling. The Thalmor had attempted to contact the Psijics before and convince them to join the gathering war effort, and as Celarus refused, he prudently also warned the others to be prepared for just such an occasion. Quaranir handed Cirroc a small, irregularly-shaped stone with detailed etchings on it. “That’s a keystone. Take it into yourself.”

“What?”

“Open your mind for reception and focus on it.”

Cirroc did as instructed and, to his surprise, the keystone disappeared in a burst of golden light that shone onto him. The attendants began to rush out of the Vault with various items stacked in their hands: armor and weapons, household items, and extraplanar artifacts, presumably each with their own unusual enchantments on them. Soon only Cirroc and Quaranir were left.

“I need to go seal the lower vaults,” Quaranir said. Cirroc nodded--more relics, the sort that they had judged to be too dangerous for mortals to ever possess again, were stored in the lower levels, which they kept under much tighter security. “Now, I have something very important for you to do. Project yourself to the College of Winterhold and ask them to pass on a message to the Dragonborn’s daughter.”

“The one from the prophecy?”

“Yes, but don’t mention that. Just tell them to tell her that there is another relic she needs to recover from this vault. It’s disappeared, so I can’t send it to her directly, but she will know that it’s hers when she gets here.”

“Should I describe it or something?”

“No. The Dominion might be able to hear now that they’ve got the Sapiarchs working for them. Keep it vague.”

Cirroc nodded, and Quaranir ran off. Cirroc cast the spell.

**_BAM_ **

They must have been trying to break down the building doors. He didn’t have much time.

“Hello? I have a message for the daughter of the Dragonborn.”

\--

“Um...that’s me. How on Nirn did you know I’d be here?”

The violet projection had interrupted Kendovaaz’s destruction magic training session with Faralda. It appeared to be a Redguard man with short, curly hair, wearing a set of heavy robes with the universally-recognized eye amulet of the Psijic Order.

“Ah yes, hello, mage. Excellent, pass this on as soon as you can if you would,” the Psijic replied.

“Wait, what? Can you hear me? It’s me, I’m her.”

“Yes, I can. Sorry, I must be brief. They can probably hear me.”

“Who can hear you? Is something happening?”

“There is a relic in the Vault of Moawita that belongs to her. We need her to come get it. She must be very careful, it will be guarded.”

“By whom? Don’t tell me the Dominion’s taking Artaeum?”

“Yes, and we think there might be more. They’re ready.” A short pause. “I need to go now. Wish her good luck for me.” And the projection faded away into a thin mist.

Guinevere and Uzdra, who had gone to get her from the Arcanaeum, ran into the Hall of the Elements just in time to see the last remnants of the vision. “What was that?” the Dovahkiin inquired.

“A Psijic,” Faralda answered. “Telling Kendovaaz to get something from Artaeum.”

“He didn’t say what. He was a bit vague and confusing about the whole thing,” Kendovaaz clarified. “He seemed to be under the impression that the Dominion would be able to hear the projection.”

“That’s not a surprise,” Faralda explained. “Our access to war intel is limited, but the High King’s court mage tells us that any objectors to Dominion supremacy have been purged from the College of Sapiarchs, and the Sapiarchs have magicks that could be exploited to listen in on any arcane communication stretching across Summerset’s borders. And that’s not all. If I’m deciphering his hints correctly...I think the Dominion is about to resume the Great War.”

Guinevere pressed her palm to her scalp and gave it a frustrated rub. “I was afraid that might happen. The night before we got here, someone made a Thu’um on Solstheim. It’s why we came in the first place.” She looked at Kendovaaz. “Did he give any hints as to what you’re looking for?”

“Only that it belongs to me. I wonder if he means my Elder Scroll?”

“Seems likely. If you could get ahold of it, it would be invaluable in discerning what you should do...and what you’re really capable of.”

“Not to mention that the Dominion might find it similarly valuable,” Uzdra commented. “You’ll want it out of their hands.” Guinevere nodded. They all looked to Kendovaaz.

She breathed in deeply. Time. Why couldn’t she have more time? She had only had a few days to freshen up her skills for her inevitable adventure. She was, thankfully, at least a bit more accustomed to the very idea of being Tamriel’s next hero. But traveling across the continent, sneaking into enemy territory, and plucking an Aurbically significant relic out from under their very noses? Yes. Her predecessors learned as they went. She could do the same. She narrowed her piercing eyes.

“Then destiny calls.”

\--

The entire College had come to bid the new hero farewell. They numbered about twenty, standing in the plaza, which was fortunately a bit less cold that day. Archmage Mirabelle placed her hands on Kendovaaz’s shoulders.

“There should be more people here to celebrate this day. You will touch so many lives. Would that they could be here to know the inauguration of your mission, but their discovery of your magic will have to wait. You go now with the blessings of the College of Winterhold, manifested in a few bequeathments.” She backed away and folded her hands.

Onmund walked out slightly from the crowd. “You’re already wearing mine.” Indeed, she had found the robes by her bedside as she went to pack. They were in the typical Nordic style, but they were a striking shade of white, with silver trim. “I found these in the Midden, stored since a time when the College was sometimes called upon to act as battlemages. Like all of our robes, they’re specially made to enhance the flow of magicka throughout your being. These are particularly potent, though. Unlike our current robes, however, they’re made out of Morrowind Kresh fiber--just as breathable as cotton, but tougher, giving you some limited protection from physical attacks.” Kendovaaz gave him a gracious nod.

Faralda took her turn, and held out a staff with an ornate dragon’s-head design. “This is enchanted with lightning. Its damage spreads easily, but it listens to its wielder, and with practice, you will be able to choose at will whom to harm and whom not to harm. Aside from draining the magicka of your enemies, it may also be employed to siphon it for your own use.” Kendovaaz delicately took it from her with both hands with a slight bow, then slung it behind her back, where the battle-mage robe magically secured it.

Drevis Neloren followed: he had a trinket about the size of his hand, consisting of a large, round, blue crystal set into a diamond-shaped slab of stone. “This is a scrying eye. You can gaze into it to help you find something you’re looking for, provided it isn’t protected with anti-scrying enchantments and you have a clear idea of what it is. If you’re clever enough, it can also show you your path if you’re lost. Know your world and your world will know you.” She took it, being careful not to touch the crystal itself. It fit perfectly into a pocket on the inside of the robes.

They then looked to Guinevere, who was standing behind the crowd, arms crossed, with the slightest smile on her face as she gazed upon her daughter. The white robes complemented her dusky, manmerish complexion perfectly, and she would no doubt stand out as a beacon of hope once she had left the white mountains of Skyrim. This, Guinevere thought, was the image of the daughter she had always seen, now visible for the world.

“Friends,” she said, looking at the mages with grateful fondness, “I won’t be staying here either.” Some raised eyebrows and quiet gasps. “If the Great War is about to resume, then I can no longer in good conscience stay hidden. My exile ends today. This is good-bye for now, though I imagine not for long--I’ll be getting around much more securing my homeland from the Dominion.” She summoned and mounted the skeletal horse.

“Bit overdramatic, don’t you think?” Kendovaaz quipped as she got on behind her.

“Kendovaaz, I can command dragons. This is me holding back.”

And they shot off across the bridge, as the cheers and waves of the College faded into the distance. This time they galloped proudly through the town of Winterhold. No cloak covered Guinevere’s legendary armor, so the sparse onlookers would almost certainly pass on the rumor. As they went down the snowy cobblestone road, Kendovaaz could only gaze in wonder at the landscape. She had only ever heard this place described in stories, and none of them had adequately captured the sheer majesty of it all. She could barely focus on anything else for the entire trip, not even the occasional guard patrol they swept past.

She started to shiver slightly as they cleared the mountain pass into the valley that made up most of Eastmarch Hold. The temperature was slightly warmer in Eastmarch, but that meant that the moisture lingered in the air instead of collecting as snow, making the cold feel much deeper. She hugged her mother tightly. They turned east onto the road that traveled alongside the White River, bringing the ancient stone walls of Windhelm dead in front of them. There Kendovaaz would find a carriage to continue her journey southwest, and there also Guinevere was awaited by the High King of Skyrim himself.

By the time they reached the Windhelm stables, the sunset was lighting up everything in a reddish glow. They dismounted and Guinevere dispelled the horse. A grand stone bridge went north to meet the city gates. They found a somewhat secluded corner in the stables to say their goodbyes, though not without prompting stares and badly-hidden whispers from the proprietors.

Guinevere reached beneath the neckline of her cuirass and pulled out an intricate metal amulet. Kendovaaz didn’t recognize most of the designs and symbols, but a few seemed to have motifs of dragons. “This is an amulet of Akatosh,” Guinevere said. “Specially commissioned by the Blades during the Great War to symbolize their hope for the coming redemption. They thought my coming would bring that redemption. But I think it has yet to come.” She reached around Kendovaaz’s neck to put the amulet on her, then tucked it into the front of her robes. “And it can also act as a magicka well to boost your spells. But that’s not why I’m giving it to you.” She slowly dragged her hands from Kendovaaz’s collar to her shoulders. “The blood of dragons--Dovah Sos--runs through your veins. Remember this, and your will shall never run dry.” And she hugged her daughter one last time.

Kendovaaz looked out across the Eastmarch valley. “I’m not even sure where to start,” she breathed.

“Your path is yours now,” Guinevere replied. “But if you need some advice...if anyone can shed a little light on this mysterious shout heard around the world, it’d be the Greybeards.” They let each other go.

Kendovaaz began to walk out, then turned around briefly for one last look. “Good luck turning Skyrim upside down again, Mom.  _ Fah hin kogaan nust draal _ .” Then she returned to the chipper dusk air.

“Ivarstead, please,” she said to the carriage rider as she handed him twenty septims. As they were beginning to head south towards the Rift, she heard a resonating

**FUS ROH DAH!**

She looked back. The Windhelm gates had been blown wide open. She chuckled and settled onto the carriage bench. She had always known her mother had a little showboat in her.


	4. Chapter 4

Kendovaaz had barely begun her journey and already one of her many questions was answered without her even having to ask it: no, not all buildings in Skyrim are as starkly cozy as the College. It was still possible that most were, she supposed, but the monastery on the icy slope of the Throat of the World offered no such welcome. High Hrothgar did provide respite from the cold, but the flames of the hanging lanterns offered that respite passively, even a bit resentfully. The light she was looking at steadied from the gust of wind from her entrance, but lingered in a fitful flutter for a while. Even before seeing its inhabitants, the building itself seemed to send a message through little details like that:  _ we welcome you, but only because we must. Don’t expect kindness or loyalty. _ Fine. If stubborn, prideful Kendovaaz was who they expected, then stubborn, prideful Kendovaaz they would get.

She stepped farther into the building, allowing her boots to hit the ground just hard enough to demand attention. She was alone in the main chamber, and when she stopped, she was greeted by a harsh silence. Was she unheard, or ignored? Frustrated, she pulled her new staff out of its holster and slammed it once on the ground. A burst of bright blue sparks left a slight singe mark on the ground where she hit. At last, the echo of the impact was answered by a rustling and then a quiet stepping.

“So,” the grizzled voice of an old man called out from a corridor to the left, “is it boldness that brings you here, or ignorance?”

She shuddered at the sudden question, then thought about her response for a short moment. “Both. I, Kendovaaz, demand answers to the mysteries I face.”

“What answers could you possibly find here?”

“Is this not a place of enlightenment? It seems to me you’re rather renowned for giving answers about the Voice.”

A very old man with a long beard and a heavy gray robe, who she knew to be Arngeir, slowly walked into view. “What answers could  _ you _ possibly find here?” he repeated, shifting his emphasis.

She straightened her back into a broad-shouldered pose that she thought might look at least a little intimidating. “What, do you know who I am?”

“Even when you are silent, your essence resonates strongly enough to be heard by those who are trained to listen. Remember this when you make your attempts to hide things from us.”

“I’m sorry, have I offended you? It’s starting to seem like the stories of your respect for my family are lies told to make your order more palatable to the people.”

“Your mother used her sacred abilities to upset the balance of the cosmos!” The monastery rumbled with his booming voice, withering Kendovaaz’s resolve and crumpled her posture. “Miraak turned his voice to enslave dragons for the woodland demon! Tiber Septim placed the entire continent into servitude to Cyrod foreigners! Your kind are all the same, destined to use the Thu’um to reconnect mortals and immortals, yet squandering that destiny in your petty power-mongering! And after you prove yourself no better than these by inviting a war for which Tamriel is not ready, you dare to approach us, blithely claiming that--”

“ **DREM.** ” Wulfgar had appeared from another corridor to interrupt the enraged Mouth of the Greybeards with a staid, calming shout.

Kendovaaz, though relieved, did not emerge from her cringed position, clutching her staff in front of her as if it was a shield. “I assure you,” she said with a timid near-whisper, “I know nothing about that shout. If you’re sure it really was me, then I must not have been lucid.  _ Hah Sil Gein _ , meaning Mind, Soul, and One. Perhaps something had split my mind and soul. That would explain why I don’t remember it.” Arngeir’s expression remained inscrutable, so she stood up straight--or at least attempted to--and continued to explain. “Whatever intent you’re trying to attribute to this, you will find none. I can’t have known about it, because before that day I didn’t even know my mother’s and my identity.”

He huffed. “Yet more hubris on her part.”

“I’m not here to answer for my ancestors’ actions. I barely know who they are. I see no legacy, no birthright. I only see a Tamriel that needs help, and my ability to help them. And you can help me help them by explaining what’s going on.” By now Borri and Einarth had also come into the room. Arngeir’s stare became more intense, as if he was trying to scrutinize whether her words were spoken in good faith. He grunted and turned around to shuffle away.

Wulfgar furrowed his brow and strode up to Kendovaaz, putting his hand on her shoulder. With a meaningful look that conveyed a newly kindled, though cautious, trust, he waved a dismissive hand in Arngeir’s direction, then took a few paces back.

**SIL KORAAV.**

The force of Wulfgar’s shout did not stagger her, but instead straightened her posture, spread out her arms, and tilted her head slightly back. She had no time to react with panic before some kind of projection in her shape floated away from her body. It was light blue with currents of black, as well as flecks of purple from the shouted spell. Upon a closer look she could see that the frame was loosely formed, composed out of wispy tendrils that wove together. The three Greybeards still watching all gasped, prompting Arngeir to turn back around in the archway. His eyes opened wide and he held a hand to his forehead.

“That...that’s a black soul,” he breathed. “You’re not Dovahkiin, you have a mortal soul. Where did you come from before you shouted??” The projected soul flew back into her body and she fell into an exhausted lean on her staff.

“My memories of it are all very confusing and vague, but I remember blips that seem to match what I know about Coldharbour.”

Arngeir breathed in deeply. “When you were born, we could feel a dragon soul, your soul, flare up across the land and sea. Your mother did not need to tell us anything. We knew who you were. But that dragon soul is no longer present.” He sidled onto a step where he sat down, and took the prayerful stance of leaning his face onto his balled hands. “A servant of Molag Bal attempted to shreave a dragon soul once before. Its sheer power overwhelmed his magic, causing him to botch the ritual. The soul was separated from the body, but it remained intact, and remotely connected to its bearer. This victim lost many of their Dragonborn abilities, but gained a unique resistance to soul magic, and went on to foil the Prince’s schemes and become one of the greatest Heroes the world has ever known. People assumed the Dragonborn were lost forever, so no one but the Greybeards knew how the hero had survived. Or so we thought.” He lowered his hands and looked again at Kendovaaz. “If Molag Bal has been so clever as to figure out how to rend the soul from a Dovah or a Dovahkiin, and so bold as to use this power on the daughter of a legendary hero, then he must have a plan--”

“Which will require commensurate cleverness and boldness to oppose,” said a new, booming voice. It had come from none of the people in the room, but seemed to rumble from outside. Arngeir widened his eyes again, paused to glance once more at Kendovaaz, then rushed up the stairs towards the back doors as he waved at her to follow. She pushed open the heavy doors to find a tan, spiky dragon standing in the snowy courtyard.

“ _ Drem Yol Lok, Dovah Sos.  _ Climb on my neck and come with me to the summit. Perhaps together we can understand how the  _ Kelle _ seem to converge upon you.”

\--

Once every few decades, a traveler would come to the town of Falkreath telling of a swath of forest, secluded in the Jerall mountain foothills due west of the town, with an unnatural shroud of darkness over it. The locals were quick to put down any rumors about it before they arose: the trees are simply closer together and stretch farther outwards in that area, blocking out the starlight just enough to create a perceptible difference in the darkness of the night. Most of the people who gave this explanation believed it. The truth of the matter was only entrusted to a select few. These few guarded the secret with their lives--quite literally, since a painful, silent death at the hands of the agents of darkness awaited anyone who put the shadowed forest at risk of exposure.

On this night, however, the difference would not be so easily dismissed by any traveler unlucky enough to wander into the canyon. Such a person would have to be extinguished, just like the light from the stars and the moons, this time blocked entirely from view. The shroud was there as a stern, yet loving welcome to darkness’s children.

Karliah felt it wash over her as she ran in. She hoped she was not too late--the call had caught her off guard during an excursion to her native land of Morrowind. There was anger and impatience in the way the darkness crept at her skin, yet she could tell that these emotions were not directed at her. A wind of shadow gave her new speed, pulling her closer as she ran towards the epicenter of the shroud. She was struck with awe as she entered the clearing. She had visited the Twilight Sepulcher numerous times, but never before was it so radiant with her mistress’s power. The ancient Nordic architecture of the shrine was penetrated with nothingness, which seeped in like a black ink and covered up any vestiges of the original purpose for which these ruins might have been built.

Standing in front of the stone doorway was a man, dressed in the same black leather outfit as Karliah: a form-fitting suit with a spiked texture that might have evoked feathers or casted shadows, topped off with a flat black cape, hood, and boots. By now she was so close to the Sepulcher that she could effortlessly glide the rest of the way towards him. She lovingly put her hands on his shoulders.

“Brynjolf, my brother, it has been too long.”

“I answer the Mistress’s call.”

“As do I, dear brother. Any ideas as to what it might be for?”

“I answer the Mistress’s call.”

Karliah was filled with a quiet disappointment. She couldn’t honestly say she was surprised, but she had maintained some hope that if their mistress required them, Brynjolf would come of his own accord. But alas, in the end his allegiance was to money alone, wasn’t it? He would never be dedicated to the Shadow with his free will intact. A pity, for she remembered his cleverness and indomitability with some fondness. He had certainly done well by his own people. All of that had to go now, though, if the Mistress desired it so.

“Come, brother, let us enter into our mother’s house.” She whisked into the ruin, and he silently followed. The gateway to the Ebonmere usually appeared as a large, purple portal, but the darkness had so enveloped it that the two mortals saw nothing until they found themselves there: a chamber, faintly lit with purple light, with a shrine of black stone at its center. Karliah and Brynjolf took their places at two of the three spokes leading out from the shrine.

As they knelt, a flock of shadowy crows appeared out of the point of the shrine and flew upwards, letting out jarring screeches before rejoining the darkness above. As the last of them ascended, they revealed a dark-skinned woman in a silky, revealing black-and-silver dress with a hood, who floated above her servants. For the first time in twenty years, Karliah was blessed by the direct presence of her lady Nocturnal, Daedric Prince of shadows.

“The Nightingales have heard your call, milady, and we have come,” Karliah said as she bowed deeply into her kneel. Brynjolf silently bowed along with her.

“By ‘we,’ you mean two of you,” the goddess’s voice echoed through the Ebonmere. “Where is my third servant?”

“She disappeared as suddenly as she came, milady. I have spent the last twenty years searching for her. Although my investigation has not yet confirmed this, the timing and some other pieces of evidence suggest that the adventurer we knew as Hildegard was the Last Dragonborn.” The purple lights which allowed the mortals to see flickered as the chamber rumbled with Nocturnal’s displeasure. “Your summons cannot be ignored. If she is not here, then the rumors of her still being alive must be false.”

“No, if she is the Dragonborn then she may be alive. Recall your oath to me as a Nightingale. What was it that you promised me?”

“All that I am, milady. My life, my service, my soul.”

“Your soul. Exactly. Think hard now, my dear...”

“The Dovahkiin has the soul of a dragon, not a mortal. What she promised, you could never have claimed. Your Eye...must not have seen that. How?”

“Do not presume to belittle my vision, mortal!” She lashed out with tendrils of inky darkness that encircled Karliah, then retracted them more calmly. “Such is the vicious deception of Akatosh and his children. I have come to know it well. Perhaps I should have anticipated it. The Dragonborn will feel the wrath of my vengeance in time. But for now, we must deal with a more urgent matter. The one for which I summoned you.”

“We stand ready to serve, lady.”

“Twenty years ago, you returned my Skeleton Key to me. In doing so, you brought a glorious victory closer to completion.”

“Will all due respect, Hildegard deserves most of the credit for that feat.”

“Credit which she squandered with her betrayal! Traitors deserve no honor. Now. To fulfill my plan, I will require the power of  _ all _ my artifacts, not just the Key. And one still eludes me.”

“Your Eye is returned to you. And the Cowl--”

“The Cowl. I allowed the Gray Fox to keep it after his predecessor broke its hold on him. That was a mistake.”

“He did not return it to you?”

“He rejected the lesson of Dareloth before him. For this he will pay dearly, once you determine his and the Cowl’s location. Find them and report back to me. Do not engage him. He must be tortured and die by my hand alone--even notwithstanding that his prowess likely exceeds your own.”

“Very well, milady.”

“You will find answers in Anvil. Begin your search there. Any questions before you depart?”

“Y...yes, I have one, mistress, if you will pardon my impertinence.” She paused to await Nocturnal’s consent, which she gave with her silence. “Why now? Your Cowl has been missing for centuries. Had I known you required it, I would have gladly quested for it before now. Has something changed?”

Nocturnal’s expression deepened into a frown. “My... _ brother _ ...”--a word she said with a seething disdain--“has acted rashly. He just delivered an ultimatum to mortalkind, unwittingly sparking a looming conflict far sooner than I anticipated. A conflict which I require the Cowl to win. Luckily, the result of his blunder now wanders the continent, and just might serve our needs...for she seems to awaken the parchment of the Elder Scrolls wherever she goes.” She looked at Karliah intensely. “Listen for the name of Kendovaaz, and follow her to your quarry. Now go.” Nocturnal vanished, and the last of the Ebonmere’s lights went out.

\--

**LOK VAH KOOR.**

Kendovaaz’s heart nearly stopped as the dragon’s shout cleared the mist from the mountaintop, revealing more of Tamriel than she thought it possible to see at once. She could see all of southern Skyrim, from Falkreath to Ivarstead to Riften, but the horizon didn’t stop at the Jerall mountains. To the south, the sky was pierced by a white spire rising up from a light-gray marble city: the White-Gold Tower, where the seat of the Cyrod empire lay. To the east, she could see the silhouette of the volcanic Red Mountain, towering over the lands of Morrowind. She could even, just barely, make out a white sliver that might have been the Adamantine Tower over the Iliac Bay. She knelt down to place her hand onto the snow and rock that made up the Throat of the World’s summit. As she concentrated on the breadth of the view, she became aware of all of the souls that lived and breathed between these natural and mortal-made towers.

“So, your first instinct is to meditate on the power of your surroundings. I know you did not get that from your mother.”

She stood up and turned to face the dragon. “I’m not so sure about that. True, where she sees threats, I see potential. But she’s the one who taught me to see that way. She never had anyone to keep her safe. I had her. So...” she tilted her head as she looked into the dragon’s eyes, “who are you and why haven’t you killed me?”

He leaned back on his haunches. “ _ Krosis _ . You had insufficient time to learn anything about her adventures beyond what you heard in stories. I am Paarthurnax, brother to Alduin. I was his lieutenant in the ancient  _ dovah-joor _ wars, until I defected so that I might teach  _ joore _ the way of the Voice. I mentor the Greybeards, and guided your mother in using her  _ Kel _ .”

“ _ Joore _ ? _ Kel _ ?”

“Mm, apologies. Your scholarly mind gives you an unusual facility with the dragon tongue, but your instinctive knowledge of the language has been stolen from you.  _ Joor _ means mortal--a creature that lives and dies. It commonly refers specifically to the greatest of mortals: the intelligent denizens of Mundus, the races of men, mer, and thinking beasts. And you know the  _ Kelle _ as the Elder Scrolls--fragments of creation itself, containing record of all the possibilities of all the times of the Aurbis, manifest in the shape of parchment so that a few strong mortals may perceive their knowledge, and even fewer, stronger mortals may shape creation’s transience.”

“Like me?”

“Ah, yes, which brings us to you.” He flapped his wings to lift himself onto a Nordic grave-wall where he perched. Kendovaaz scrambled down the rocks from her viewpoint to stand beneath him. “Earlier I called you  _ Dovah Sos _ , for it seems that even with a mortal soul, you still have your mother’s dragon blood in your veins. This makes you sensitive to fluctuations in time. No doubt you can feel  _ that _ , for instance.” He gestured a wing at a spot on the ground to the right of the grave-wall, where Kendovaaz could feel a warp in the very fabric of reality. “Also like your mother, you are a Hero, with your name written in a  _ Kel _ , recognizing your potential to change the course of time. All this is to be expected. Yet still you puzzle me, Kendovaaz.”

“These are puzzling times.”

“You know not how right you are. The appearance of an intact soul in the depths of Coldharbour...that should not be possible, let alone one compatible enough with your being to make you a whole person again. Something, or someone, put your soul exactly where it needed to be. And that’s not all.” He twisted to look towards the south. “The world is awakening. Across the Aurbis, forces long in wait are arising. The  _ Kelle _ are resonating, Kendovaaz. Not just yours, not just your mother’s, but all of them. The Ashlanders whisper that the Nerevarine may return from his exile. The Hist and the Graht-Oaks deepen their roots and strengthen their mortal servants. The Aldmeri Dominion prepares to invade new lands. Daedric Princes plot to settle ancient vendettas. Did  _ you _ do all this?”

They were silent for a few moments. “Am--am I supposed to answer that? I don’t know,” Kendovaaz said nervously. “If I did, it wasn’t on purpose. All I want is what’s best for people.” More silence. This time Paarthurnax was the one to break it.

“Alduin was meant to end the world before it was plunged into chaos. Only someone who loves Tamriel with a love never dying could have chosen to stop him.” He stared deeply into her eyes.

“She’s just returned to the world to be a Hero again. If that’s not undying love, I don’t know what is.”

He huffed a satisfied sigh. “Maybe you are right about your mother, warrior of mercy. I see Guinevere in you.” He leaned back and breathed in. “But your quest shall wait for my ramblings no longer. Thank you for humoring me, Kendovaaz Dovahsos. You’ve given me hope for the future.”

She tilted her head. “How have I done that? I barely said anything.”

“You said enough. With words you spoke and words you did not speak. Farewell.”

She bowed, and was instantly filled with an awkward unease as she became unsure whether a bow was really the appropriate gesture. She decided to just get away from the situation as fast as possible by casting a spell of partial levitation and gliding off the south side of the mountain.

It wasn’t until a couple days later, when she was riding in a carriage through the mountain pass to Cyrodiil, that she realized one word she definitely did not speak. Everyone, prior to her exile, knew her mother as Hildegard. So how had Paarthurnax known to call her Guinevere?


	5. Chapter 5

It had been a long time since High King Ulfric had ever been addressed with such brazenness. In a way, it was a welcome relief--there was something more authentic and visceral about the days in which his Voice and his battle-axe were the things that commanded respect, instead of just his face or his name. Still, that relief was quickly overshadowed by the wave of other emotions: insult, anger, and apprehension chief among them.

With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the young initiate who had sprinted into the Palace of the Kings, and who barely had the time to sputter the announcement that Guinevere, the Last Dragonborn, has come for an audience with the High King before said supplicant was towering behind him. The poor lad would probably think twice about his decision to join up after being forced to introduce a confrontation like this.

Ulfric was surprised to find himself not knowing exactly how to react. Consolidating the Nation of Skyrim’s legitimacy had become something of a repetitive job over the last twenty years, so he would have been arthritic in breaking his routines for any new development--let alone something as game-changing and uncharted as this. He stood up from his throne, but stayed atop its steps, in order to prevent Guinevere’s imposing height from framing his own.

“High King.” She addressed him simply, with no bow, but only the slightest nod of the head. She did not go on, clearly expecting some response.

He stared at her, sizing her up as he endeavored to encapsulate what he needed to say. She had aged quite gracefully, with the mark of the years that had gone by visible in her face and figure, but not seeming to weaken her. 

“Is this the protector of Skyrim who stands before me?”

“The protector of Skyrim stands where Skyrim sees.”

“And what does that crowd outside see?”

“For now, only one another, and the unyielding walls of this Palace.”

“Quite true. They see the Palace of the  _ Kings _ .” He emphasized that last word subtly, but carefully. Hopefully the assorted nobles and staff who were watching would hear nothing in their words but the lofty pseudo-philosophical nonsense one tended to expect from political leaders. He could not afford for anyone to suspect that he and the Dragonborn were anything less than allies.

“Were the walls they see built by the kings?”

_ Another word, and she’ll go and break the illusion anyway, won’t she? _ He feigned a good-natured chuckle. “We could continue this banter for a long time, Lady Guinevere, but you must have come for a reason.”

“Yes, High King. I have been informed that the Aldmeri Dominion means to resume the Great War. As we speak they are consolidating their political capital and preparing an invasion force. Skyrim’s army must mobilize immediately to answer this threat.”

He couldn’t stop himself from bucking slightly in reaction to her words. It was not just the possibility that war was coming. No, in fact, it most certainly wasn’t that. The Nords were always ready to defend their homeland, and Ulfric could feel their anxiety growing as it became more apparent that the Dominion and the Empire were intent on breaking their spirit. They would welcome the chance to fight, truly fight, once more. But  _ her. _ She disappears for two decades and then storms into Windhelm, presuming to order around his army. How does she dare? Because her heroics turned the tide of the Civil War? The war he fought for years, and won? Or perhaps because of some sense that she is a thing of legend, deserving of the highest honor for the stories of her dragonslaying?

He put on a calm, but appropriately concerned, frown. “Perhaps we should adjourn to the war room to discuss this further, Dovahkiin.”

“ _ Let’s, _ ” she responded with a bleeding tone, and then walked toward the doorway to the left of the throne as swiftly as she had entered. Ulfric followed, at a slower, but still brisk, pace. As he closed the door behind them, he allowed the concerned look to melt off his face into a scowl.

“Who do you think you are?” he growled, savagely pronouncing every consonant. “Twenty years in hiding, then you sally in, asking me to call you by some new name--”

“Seriously?” She slammed her hands on the central wooden table, leaving scuff marks on the map of Skyrim that sat on it. “I come here with news that your kingdom is in danger, and your first words outside of the confines of royal courtliness are directed at me? I’d have hoped you’d learned by now to put your people before your ego, but I suppose it’s hard to tell the difference when you’ve based your legitimacy on a cult of personality.”

“What, regretting your decision? Wishing you had put Skyrim in Imperial hands instead? Or perhaps just left her to tear herself apart?”

“As if you weren’t one of the people willingly doing the tearing. Now, if you want to be sure that I don’t come to regret that decision, I suggest you start focusing on the immediate danger and thinking of how to combat it,  _ High King, Protector of Skyrim _ .”

“You act like my trust in you and my duty towards my people are entirely separate issues. But let me remind you, as you seem to have forgotten, that  _ you remain the only person to have told me about this danger _ .”

“What, so you don’t believe me? What could I possibly have to gain from lying to you about this?”

“If you lead my armies into battle against the Dominion, you will get the glorious comeback you need to restore your reputation. Not only that, but you’ll have the first-move advantage, augmenting your victory, and you’ll restart the war in earnest anyway, giving you deniability.”

“Hm, you’re right, that does sound like a very effective plan. Makes me wonder why you didn’t do it.”

“Because the longer this antebellum lasts, the longer we have to strengthen our forces and fortify our borders. Oh, sure, if we attack now, our first victory will be decisive enough to give the glory to the one who led it. But our enemies will have the advantage in the long run. If you care about your people more than yourself, you will wait and watch as I have done.”

“Unless they’ve already taken the first move, hence why I’m here.”

“Which leaves the two of us at an impasse, does it not? It’s your word against mine, and I’m the High King.”

“And I’m the savior of the world. Whom will the people trust more?”

“Care to divide my people and find out?” She paused--it seemed he had won that round. “No, I thought not.” He paced over to the map of Tamriel that hung on the far wall. “Your-- _ ahem _ \--source is secret, I presume? I have to take your word for it?” She remained silent. “Figures. Then you can’t prove it to me.” He turned back around to look at her, and his expression softened a bit, and he sighed. “I haven’t forgotten what you did for me... _ Guinevere _ ...so I will not object to you taking up residence in the mainland again. I’ll even do what I can to keep your presence here secret from our enemies. But you understand why I can’t drop everything and go to war on your word.”

She closed her eyes. “One of us has to put aside our ego and support the other to keep Skyrim safe,” she muttered, half to herself. “I was hoping we would both do so. But if you’re going to call my bluff, well, the fact is, you have the choice not to. I don’t.” She looked directly at him and spoke louder. “I can prove my word. Because if I’m lying, then I would have no reason to do this.” She stood up straight, reached for the sheath on her back, and pulled out her daunting dragonbone greatsword. She held it in her hand for a moment, and then she threw the sword on the ground in front of the High King’s feet. “I, Guinevere, the Last Dragonborn, do hereby pledge my fealty to Ulfric Stormcloak, the High King of Skyrim.”

\--

_ I’m a god. How can you kill a god? What a grand and intoxicating innocence. _

Over two hundred years had passed since Dagoth Ur so mocked him. A farce, answered with Keening’s blade. A belittlement disproven by the fall of Almalexia. Such an easy pride to feel.

_ You were to be my greatest martyr! You will scream, mortal. _

Over two hundred years had passed since Almalexia so raged at him. A threat, made in desperation. A statement of unambiguous enmity from the one clinging onto her divinity. Such an easy insult to forget.

_ You no longer bear the burden of prophecy. You have achieved your destiny. You are freed. Hail savior, Hortator and Nerevarine. _

Over two hundred years had passed since Azura so blessed him. A story, told and ended. A prophecy fulfilled. Such an easy lie to believe.

How could he have let himself think for any length of time, let alone over two hundred years, that a god, any god, was his friend, his ally, his matron? He was the Godkiller of Morrowind, and yet he allowed himself to be a pawn in the machinations of a god. What had Azura done to prove herself any more trustworthy than the Sharmat? Whispered in his ear as he was shipped to Seyda Neen? Maybe he shouldn’t be so hard on himself. It was that damned prophecy, after all. Azura had spoken words to his sense of duty--true words, carefully twisted to her needs. There was no doubt that the Nerevarine was meant to save the dunmer and restore the glory of Resdayn. Not even a Daedric Prince could keep up such a lie about the contents of the scrolls. But this idea that ending the Sharmat and the Tribunal were the end of his work--it was foolishness. Morrowind needed him beyond the death of the Tribunal. Instead he had sailed into the sunrise, blindly serving the needs of the very same god who once cursed the dunmer to suffer the same fate as her hated usurpers. But no more. If there was a Morrowind left to save, he would lead it. If there was a dunmer left to lead, he would save them.

He paused his inner tirade. Something was wrong. These memories--they were his own, yet they were not his own. They belonged to him, and yet they were formed by a different mind. A mind now gone, replaced by this one. He tried to think back--what was the last thing he remembered? He didn’t remember setting sail to return to Tamriel. He was in the temple, meditating, when he felt the ground tremor. “Dovahzul,” said the Tang Mo priest next to him. Another tremor hit--and then he was here. No, that can’t be right. That’s still this other mind. He closed his eyes and reached further back. Then it finally hit him. A cavern. The same Red Mountain cavern where-- _ he? _ \--had stabbed the Heart of Lorkhan. He stumbled back from the dissipating body of his once-friend, Dagoth Ur, mortally wounded. Everything was all right. Soon, his friends would come and find his body. They would hide, maybe even destroy, Kagrenac’s Tools, so that no one could use them ever again. His people would never again seek to justify themselves through divinity.

He jolted out of his trance. That memory wasn’t hundreds of years ago. It was thousands. His sense of purpose rushed back into him like a gust of wind. He had no idea how this happened, but the evidence was incontrovertible: the last vestiges of the outlander who had played host to his wayward soul had evaporated, leaving only him. Returned, and fully himself.

He refocused himself on his surroundings, and saw what had awoken him from the unconscious stupor in which he had embarked across the Padomaic Sea: the wet grassland of southern Morrowind’s eastern shore, studded with giant mushrooms and ancient igneous crags. It was here that the scorching influence of Red Mountain was least felt, thus bearing the closest resemblance to the idyllic beauty of Resdayn. He breathed a sigh of relief as his small sailboat hit the muddy shore. He was, as much as he could possibly be, home.

The area was virtually deserted, except for one young female dunmer sitting by a campfire. As he approached, he could see from the footprints and flattened ground around the circle that although she was alone now, she was visited frequently. He quietly walked up, and stayed standing as he warmed his hands.

“Have you been here long? I don’t suppose you were waiting for me.”

“Not waiting for you, though your presence is welcome, muthsera. Over a year now I have been waiting here, and elsewhere I have waited for twenty years, and provided guidance to those who also wait.”

“Wait for what, if I may ask? Or whom?”

“Why, for the savior, of course. For Ysmir.”

“Ysmir? Why does a dunmer await a nordic hero?”  _ And furthermore, _ he thought, _ in whom do they expect Ysmir to be embodied? _ To his knowledge, only two people in history had been called Ysmir, Dragon of the North: Wulfharth, the High King who had invaded Morrowind in the early first era; and Tiber Septim, the conqueror who negotiated Morrowind’s incorporation into the Cyrod Empire with the Tribunal. Dunmeri history had few kind words for either of them. “Forgive my ignorance,” he gently diplomatized. “I haven’t been in Morrowind for some time, and the ways of today are strange to me.”

“You honor the Dragonborn with your earnest search for knowledge. I will tell you. Those of us who await her return believe that the hero of Skyrim is the hero of all. Although she assisted Skyrim’s despot king in freeing her country, she defied him by refusing her fealty, and by making company with the poor, the downtrodden, the non-Nords of Skyrim. Her enemies are our enemies, and between her and her allies she sees no border.”

“And twenty years you have waited?”

“Twenty years since she preserved our reality and then vanished.”

“And what makes you so sure that she will return?”

“Because she must. The end of the world has been stopped, but the powers of darkness still rise to seize what is left. And we know she is not dead, for no foe would have vanquished such a formidable warrior without attempting to claim the glory of that victory.”

He became overwhelmed with sympathy for this poor mer. Her logic was attractive, but erroneous. Even if anyone bearing the standard of nordic legend could be trusted to have the best interest of the dark elves at heart, even the greatest of heroes could die in secret. “Wait no longer, sera,” he pronounced as he reached down his hand to pull her from her seat.

“You think the Dovahkiin has returned?” she said in awe as she accepted his hand and stood up.

“You await no Dovahkiin, but a savior. For this, your fiery eyes should look not to the north, but to the east.” He stretched his palms at his sides and looked toward the heavens. He reached his soul into the land of Morrowind, where he found its spiritual heart, burned and bruised, yet still beating. He began to shine with the golden light of a Velothi blessing, and from the history of his people he summoned his distinctive chimeri armor, sword, and shield. He turned his gaze back down to the pilgrim, whose mouth stood agape. “Go and tell those who have waited with you that their wait is over. Indoril Nerevar has returned to Morrowind, and I vow to you that I will not rest until I have made the dunmer people whole and restored the glory of Resdayn.”

\--

Hear me, people of Skyrim.

I am Guinevere. Twenty years ago, I slew Alduin the world-eater, completed the fight for Skyrim’s independence, and deposed the vampire lord Harkon Volkihar. I then hid myself from the world, watching and waiting. Many of you are wondering my reasons for doing so. I desperately wish that I could offer you the comfort of an explanation, but alas, my reasons must still remain secret, for the safety of the Mundus and this Nation. I can only offer you my word that my decision was a conflicted one. I was kept in hiding by neither fear, nor apathy, nor even fatigue, and certainly not a lack of concern for my people.

To those of you who are glad to see me return, it is my unfortunate duty to dampen your gladness: deadly conflict also returns to Tamriel this day. As I speak, the Aldmeri Dominion is mustering its armies to march on the rest of the continent. We have little reason to doubt that their sights, sooner or later, will be set on Skyrim. In recognition of this threat and the obligation I have to face it, I have pledged myself as a vassal of your High King Ulfric Stormcloak. I will stand on the front lines as our armies prove to the continent what we have always known: that these mountains of the north give us a strength beyond strengths. Skyrim belongs to the Nords, and the Nords shall never be broken.

The High King and I have determined that the Dominion’s strategy will likely be to consolidate new holdings around the Abecean Sea. He believes that the peoples of the northwest are soft and manipulable. They will fall easily to the elves. As such, we will not use our resources in their defense, but instead consolidate our homeland. The presence of the Nation of Skyrim in Riften, the Reach, and Solstheim will no longer be maintained with delicate diplomacy, but will now instead supplant those who seek to shrink our country. This way, we can put up the most unified front possible when the Dominion reaches our borders, or if the Empire seeks to renew their folly of claiming ownership over us.

Although it may be a while yet before the fighting reaches us, make no mistake: we are at war. Work with us to protect you and yours, and you will be rewarded with a safer home than you have ever known. In the meantime, look in each others’ eyes and find your allies.

And to our enemies, who shall see these words written or perhaps even hear them as I speak, this I say to you: you have incurred the wrath of the ancient powers I command, and the modern powers in the heart of my countrymen. I am curious to see which you fear more. You will quake before we flinch. You will be toppled before we tremble. The time for mercy has ended.

All glory to High King Ulfric. All glory to the Nords. All glory to Skyrim.


	6. GLOSSARY

**\--PEOPLES**

**\--Humans**

-Imperials/Cyrods: Most common race of the heartland of the human Empire, strong culture of diplomacy and mercantilism.

-Nords: Tall and hardy, strong culture of battle and honor.

-Bretons: Descendants of the northwestern Nedes and their Ayleid invaders, strongest aptitude for magic amongst humans.

-Redguards: Dark-skinned and tough, strong culture of travel and adventure.

**\--Mer (elves): May be referred to by their Aldmeris name or their common name, though some prefer one or the other depending on cultural context.**

\--Altmer: High elves. Strongest aptitude for magic, many consider themselves the superior race.

\--Bosmer: Wood elves. Strong culture of storytelling and connection with nature.

\--Dunmer: Dark elves. Strong culture of worship and group politics.

\--Ashlanders: Nomadic dunmer, often reviled by Great House dunmer for their heterodox religion.

\--Orsimer: Orcs (lit. “pariah folk”). Strong culture of building and solidarity.

**\--Other intelligent races/creatures**

\--Khajiit: Cat-people. Come in many varieties, but the most common are humanoid with cat faces and claws.

\--Argonians: Lizard-people. Humanoid with lizard faces and scaly skin.

\--Dovah: Dragons. Strongly associated with Akatosh. Thought to be a myth for much of Tamriel’s history.

\--Hist: An intelligent tree native to Black Marsh, worshipped by the Argonians as deities.

**\--Non-Tamrielic races**

\--Falmer: Snow elves. Once intelligent, now corrupted and goblin-like, living underground in Skyrim.

\--Maormer: Sea elves. Split off from Aldmer in ancient times.

\--Tsaeci, Ka Po’Tun, Tang Mo, Kamal: Denizens of Akavir, a continent east of Tamriel

\--Sload: Slug-like people native to the southern seas. Strong culture of mind-magic.

**Extinct races**

\--Dwemer: Dwarves (lit. “deep elves”). Strong culture of arcane science. Vanished mysteriously in the first era.

\--Chimer: Changed elves. Ancestors of the Dunmer.

\--Nedes: Humans from Atmora, a continent north of Tamriel. Ancestors to Imperials, Nords, and Bretons.

\--Yokudans: Humans from Yokuda, a sunken continent west of Tamriel. Ancestors to Redguards.

\--Ayleids: Heartland high elves. Ruled the Empire before being usurped and banished by their former Cyrod slaves.

\--Aldmer: Ancient elves. Ancestors to most modern elves.

**\--PLACES**

**\--Planes & Heavenly Bodies**

\--Aurbis: everything, the Universe. Said to be the intersection between Anu and Padomay (Order and Chaos).

\--Aetherius: planes of existence where life energies are stronger than death energies.

\--Oblivion: planes of existence where death energies are stronger than life energies.

\--Mundus: planes of existence where life and death are in balance, home to living mortals.

\--Nirn: The planet in Mundus where mortals live.

\--Magnus: The sun.

\--Masser: Nirn’s larger moon.

\--Secunda: Nirn’s smaller moon.

\--The Revenant: aka the Necromancer’s Moon. The divine body of the deified necromancer and lich-king, Mannimarco.

**\--Continents of Nirn**

\--Tamriel: The supercontinent where most events take place.

\--Akavir: A continent east of Tamriel. Akaviri have very occasionally invaded Tamriel.

\--Pyandonea: A continent south of Tamriel, home to the Maormer.

\--Yokuda: A continent west of Tamriel, now sunken.

\--Atmora: A continent north of Tamriel, now abandoned.

**\--Regions of Tamriel**

\--Cyrodiil: Home of the Imperials--hills and river valleys.

\--Skyrim: Home of the Nords--rough, mountainous, and cold, with some more temperate valleys.

\--Morrowind: Home of the Dunmer--volcanic, with some marshy regions to the south.

\--Resdayn: The former name of Morrowind, before the eruption of Red Mountain in 1E 700 which transformed the people and the landscape.

\--High Rock: Home of the Bretons--hills and some rough mountains.

\--Hammerfell: Home of the Redguards--desert.

\--Wrothgar: Home of the Orcs--Mountains and tundra.

\--Summerset Isles: Home of the Altmer--coasts and hills.

\--Valenwood: Home of the Bosmer--dense forest.

\--Elsweyr: Home of the Khajiit--dry badlands to the north, verdant cliffs to the south.

\--Black Marsh: Home of the Argonians--swampland.

**\--Disputed regions of Tamriel**

\--Solstheim: Historically part of Skyrim and Morrowind at various points.

\--The Reach: Difficult-to-navigate mountainous region, disputed between Skyrim and its Breton natives.

\--Vvardenfell: The large island making up the northern half of Morrowind. Abandoned when Red Mountain erupted, now the Ashlanders and the 5 Great Houses of the Dunmer are fighting to re-establish territory.

\--Gold Coast: Western region of Cyrodiil, disputed between the Empire and various local powers.

**\--DEITIES**

**\--Eight Divines/Aedra (lit. “our ancestors”) -- these deities’ essences were consumed in the**

**creation of Mundus, but may still have fleeting consciousness.**

God/goddess

| 

Sphere  
  
---|---  
  
Akatosh

| 

Time  
  
Arkay

| 

Life and death  
  
Kynareth

| 

Nature  
  
Julianos

| 

Wisdom  
  
Mara

| 

Love, family  
  
Dibella

| 

Beauty, Eroticism  
  
Zenithar

| 

Labor, commerce  
  
Stendarr

| 

Mercy, justice  
  
**\--Daedric Princes -- the most powerful of the Daedra (lit. “not our ancestors”) -- these deities chose not to participate in the creation of Mundus. Most, but not all, are malevolent.**

Prince (usually called Princes, even when their usual presentation is female)

| 

Sphere

| 

Resident Plane of Oblivion  
  
---|---|---  
  
Molag Bal

| 

Domination, brutality, power

| 

Coldharbour  
  
Mehrunes Dagon

| 

Destruction, revolution

| 

The Wastelands  
  
Hermaeus Mora

| 

Knowledge, esp. secrets

| 

Apocrypha  
  
Hircine

| 

The Hunt

| The Hunting Grounds  
  
Boethiah

| 

Betrayal

| Unknown  
  
Azura

| 

Twilight, patron deity of the Dunmer

| Moonshadow  
  
Malacath

| 

Vengeance, the downtrodden, patron deity of the Orsimer

| The Ashpit  
  
Sheogorath

| 

Madness

| 

The Shivering Isles  
  
Meridia

| 

Purity, light

| 

The Colored Rooms  
  
Clavicus Vile

| 

Bargains, Corruption

| The Fields of Regret  
  
Nocturnal

| 

Darkness

| 

The Evergloam  
  
Mephala

| 

Deception

| 

The Spiral Skein  
  
Sanguine

| 

Revelry, drunkenness

| The Realms of Revelry  
  
Peryite

| 

Disease, pestilence

| The Pits  
  
Namira

| 

Rot, decay

| The Scuttling Void  
  
Vaermina

| 

Nightmares

| Quagmire  
  
Jyggalag

| 

Order

| 

None (disputes Shivering Isles with Sheogorath)  
  
**\--Other**

\--Et’Ada: lit. “Original spirit.” A collective term for any deity present at the creation of Mundus.

\--Lorkhan: Tricked the Aedra into giving up their essence for Mundus. Killed by Akatosh.

\--Magnus: Worked with Lorkhan to design Mundus. According to the legend, he fled to Aetherius in the aftermath of the creation, tearing a hole in the firmament that’s now the sun.

\--Anu: The deic embodiment of order.

\--Padomay: The deic embodiment of chaos.

\--Anu-iel: The deic embodiment of life.

\--Sithis: The deic embodiment of death.

\--Y’ffre: The Bosmeri god of storytelling and the Green.

\--Talos: The deified form of Tiber Septim, the emperor who unified all of Tamriel at the beginning of the third era. Considered as a ninth Divine by worshippers, but his godhood is disputed.

\--Alduin: An immortal dragon, destined to end the world by eating it. Related to Akatosh, but it is unclear how exactly--possibly his firstborn, possibly a dark aspect of him. Killed by the Last Dragonborn, an act with similarly unclear implications.

\--Indoril Nerevar: The legendary Hortator of the chimer. His death at the Battle of Red Mountain coincided with numerous key events, including the disappearance of the Dwemer, the transformation of the chimer into the dunmer, and the apotheosis of the Tribunal. He was prophesied to return as the Nerevarine to finish his work, and revered as a saint in dunmeri religion both before and after the coming of the Nerevarine.

\--The Tribunal: The three living gods Almalexia, Vivec, and Sotha Sil. They were, respectively, Nerevar's wife, general, and archmagus. After Nerevar’s death, they became gods by extracting divine energy from the Heart of Lorkhan, and ruled over Morrowind as gods from 1E 700 until 3E 427 at the coming of the Nerevarine.

\--Dagoth Ur: also known as Voryn Dagoth, the Demon of Red Mountain, or the Sharmat. Nerevar trusted him to guard Kagrenac’s Tools, but Dagoth fell to the temptation to use them and made himself into a god. Nerevar’s last act was to discorporated him, but he reappeared in the late second era and stole the Tools, cutting off the Tribunal’s source of divinity, and began to plot to take over existence. He was permanently defeated by the Nerevarine.

**\--Other significant terms**

\--Hero: When capitalized, refers specifically to a prophesied mortal with an unusual capacity to change the course of history (i.e. the playable characters of the games).

Significant Heroes include:

Common Title

| 

Year of adventures

| 

Significant accomplishments  
  
---|---|---  
  
The Eternal Champion

| 

3E 399

| 

Deposed Jagar Tharn, the battlemage who betrayed, kidnapped, and replaced Emperor Uriel Septim VII  
  
The Agent

| 

3E 417

| 

Brought peace to High Rock by recovering the heart of the Dwemer Automaton Numidium  
  
The Nerevarine

| 

3E 427

| 

Defeated Dagoth Ur, deposed the Tribunal  
  
The Hero of Kvatch (Or the Champion of Cyrodiil)

| 

3E 433

| 

Helped Martin Septim and the Blades repel the invasion of Mehrunes Dagon  
  
The Last Dragonborn (Or sometimes simply The Dragonborn)

| 

4E 201

| 

Defeated Alduin, determined the outcome of the Skyrim Civil War  
  
The Hero of Coldharbour (Or The Soulless One)

| 

2E 582-583

| 

Repelled an attempted invasion by Molag Bal, stabilized the The Alliances, defeated numerous apocalyptic-scale threats  
  
\--Dragonborn: A mortal with the soul of a dragon. Blessed with increased strength, resistance to most soul magic, and a high aptitude for the Thu’um.

\--Thu’um/Shouts/The Voice: A form of magic in which the user shouts words or phrases in the dragon language. The more the user understands the meaning of the words, the stronger the effect. Dragons and dragonborn can learn such words easily, but other mortals may also learn shouts through years of study and meditation.

\--Magicka: The energy used for most magic. A certain amount of magicka is inherent to the soul of every mortal, and larger stores may be concentrated into relics.

\--Ebony: A black mineral used in high-quality weapons and armor (yes, I know it’s a kind of wood in real life)

\--Kagrenac’s tools/Sunder, Keening, and Wraithguard: The hammer, dagger, and gauntlet, respectively, invented by the Dwemer architect Kagrenac to harness the power of the Heart of Lorkhan.

\--Serjo/Sera/Muthsera: terms of respect common to dunmeri parlance, ranging from familiar to formal.


End file.
